


Ingenious

by brightingales (zoeteniets)



Category: Hollyoaks
Genre: Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Dirty Thoughts, M/M, Mild Kink, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-08 17:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19475425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoeteniets/pseuds/brightingales
Summary: James Nightingale - 007 - MI6's best agent, has a crush on his new Quartermaster...For the Happy Jarry Holiday prompt - Orange: Healing, Adventure, Independence...





	Ingenious

The mission in Budapest was a bloody nightmare. Figuratively and literally.

So, James didn’t think anyone would mind if he took something of a sabbatical. And, if that sabbatical came with the added advantage of everyone back in London thinking he was dead, it was all the better for him. Sometimes, there has to be a bright-side to being shot in the shoulder. Twice. And as it turns out, enjoying death for a few months was the best decision he’s probably ever made in his career.

MI6 was once a warren full of moles. Now it is a graveyard – in multiple senses of the word. Bodies are quite literally buried under the rubble of the former HQ. Careers are lying equally dead, and James even heard that a few ghosts came back to haunt the place for one final hurrah before being carted off to suffer perjury at Her Majesty’s Pleasure once again. James knows that he might once have been among their number. Most of the senior staff are.

Mother, Marnie, M - Head of MI6 and Britain’s most formidable woman - somehow manages to keep her head in the ensuing chaos. How she does it, James will never know, nor does he particularly care to think about what she had to do to keep her position at the head of MI6 despite presiding over a decade-defining scandal. Still, she seems confident that they’ve pulled up the weeds right at the root. James comes back just as they’re laying down the very last of the killer.

Donovan – Head of Staff and thorn in James’s side – is gone. So is Mercedes McQueen, who used to be Head of Assurances. Several Heads of Division have been culled alongside them, including their old Quartermaster. When Marnie finally stops yelling at James for leaving her to deal with all the mess while planning her eldest child’s funeral (and she’s never going to let him live that down despite the fact that it’s entirely her own fault for doubting his resurrection powers) she sends him off to the new Q branch with orders not to come back until the new Q has performed a full inventory of all James’s equipment.

It’s not going to take long, James thinks, secretly smug. Almost everything he owned had been incarcerated in the Hungarian hotel fire that he somehow managed to escape with two bullets in his deltoid. He used to drive the old Q apoplectic with his apparent lack of care for his equipment and he’s sure that the next Q will be equally entertaining to wind up.

Amongst all the changes to personnel and buildings and security measures, Q-branch has been re-located to a basement down some of the dingiest corridors James has ever seen in his life. And he was once imprisoned in a Russian gulag for three weeks. So, he’s quite surprised when he emerges from the maze of tunnels into a wide and bright workshop.

The first thing James notices is the cars. It’s hardly surprising given his overall disposition but what else is he supposed to do when confronted with a brand-new Alpha Romeo, other than stare? Next, James takes in the wall-length computer screens, divided into little sections monitoring various cameras stationed all over the world. No one is watching the screens though. Instead, the place is eerily quiet.

James’s hand instinctively goes for his gun, until he remembers that the last time he saw it, it was a smouldering heap of melted metal and plastic. He tenses, ready to lash out, just in case the new Q-branch have unwittingly fallen victim to a last-ditch attempt to destroy MI6 from the inside out.

He sharpens his senses, reaching out for any clue that could tell him what on earth is going on. And that’s when he hears it.

Cheering. It’s muffled by one of the thick underground walls but it’s unmistakable. It sounds like part of Q branch has been replaced with a countryside pub during match day. Not quite believing what he is hearing, James creeps down the length of the workshop to the office at the end of the room and stealthily opens the door.

It looks like a typical workshop office. There is a huge, messy desk, and a collection of filing cabinets, bookshelves, and noticeboards. The only thing that is out of place is the large flat-screen T.V. at the centre of the room. Around it is a sea of brightly coloured bean bags and sofas that look like they have seen better days and are all the more comfortable for it. The seats are filled with various boffins, all young, all cheering, as two of their number sit at the front of the group wrestling with two video-game controllers. 

It’s not like anything James has ever seen in Q-branch before.

No one has noticed his presence; they’re too enraptured with watching their colleagues battle it out. James nearly has to clear his throat. But then the duel seems to abruptly finish as a virtual car goes racing over a finish line, and the victor stands to face his adoring fans who leap to their feet and cheer for him.

The man is young. He can’t be much older than twenty, although the shape of his jawline and cheekbones suggest this is more to do with a natural ‘babyface’ rather than genuine youth. The style of his clothing is unremarkable, except for the fact that he is wearing a surprising shade of pastel aqua that seems far to on-trend for anyone within ten yards of the notoriously stuffy Q-branch. It’s a well-selected hue – the powdery blue accentuating the young man’s bright blue eyes and luscious tan. And his muscles? James is beginning to wonder why he hasn’t seen this bright young thing in the 00’s training rooms before. Surely, he must be using them. How else could he have biceps that bulging...?

“Can I help?” Baby Blue says, noticing James staring at him.

“I’m looking for the new Quartermaster.”

“Yup,” he replies climbing over a beanbag. There is an awkward pause as James waits for a further explanation. But now several of the boffins have turned to watch their exchange.

“Well, could you fetch him for me?”

Baby Blue sighs, shrugs his unfairly attractive shoulders and says, “007 – Mr Nightingale – I am your new Quartermaster.”

James would laugh if he wasn’t so confused. Instead, he manages to say, “Pardon?”

“I’m Q.”

“You can’t be.”

“And why not?” the reply is slightly indigent.

“Because you’re… you’re…” too tanned to be trapped in a basement all day? Too fit to be a computer nerd? Too young to be in charge of the nation’s largest and most advanced weapons store?

“Because you still have spots,” James eventually manages.

“My complexion is hardly relevant.”

“No, but your competence is.”

“Age is no guarantee for efficiency,” the young man replies, two angry red spots appearing on his cheeks. He’s embarrassed. It’s cute.

“And youth is no guarantee for innovation.”

Somehow, they’ve ended up facing off against each other, almost toe to toe, and eye to eye. At least they would be if the new Q wasn’t so short. They’re so busy trying to stare each other down that neither of them has noticed that everyone else is watching them, quietly nudging each other and communicating with raised eyebrows.

“Break’s over – back to work,” Q snaps as he comes to the same realisation as James. The boffins pause a moment, and the lad who had lost the videogame almost looks like he’s going to leap to his colleague’s defence. But eventually, they all disperse.

It’s an impressive display of authority for someone who looks like they’ve just started an internship, and James says as much as they move over to the largest desk in the room.

“I’m going to take that as a compliment, though I know that’s not how you intended it,” Q says. He produces a clipboard from somewhere. “Right – I’ve been told I need to take an inventory of all your equipment and…”

“That’s easy, there isn’t any,” James interrupts.

Q sighs again. This time, though, James can see the little grimace he pulls as he does it. Q turns his head to the side a little, like a confused puppy, and squeezes his eyes shut as if it physically pains him to look at James for a moment. But his mouth briefly turns up in a half-smile too and James wonders if the young man is trying not to laugh. The moment passes almost immediately, and James is strangely struck by how much he wants to see Q make that face once more – if only to study his expression further.

“Fine – that makes this next part easy too.”

Q reaches into a drawer under his desk and pulls out a small and sleek black box. He unlocks it, with a key from his pocket (and James only has a moment to think that a key and a lock seems terribly old fashioned for such a high-tech department) and passes the box to James.

Nestled inside are a gun and a radio.

“Is that it?” he asks, incredulously.

“Of course not,” Q replies with a smile. “I have your ticket to Shanghai here as well.”

Q schools his expression into something more neutral, and James reached out to take the ticket, but James can hear his smile lingering in his voice. James tucks the plane ticket into the inside pocket of his suit and raises his eyebrows in response. Q seems to catch the expression. Perhaps he is cleverer than he looks?

“Budget cuts I’m afraid. What with the mess at HQ. It was decided that it would be more cost-effective if we were to scale back to the bare essentials for a while.”

If James was in a bad mood, and the new Q was a little less pretty, then he would have immediately questioned the claim. Being handed a gun and a radio – that any fool could buy – looks less like budget cuts and a lot more like the department is being run by inept interns that have only just mastered the basics of weapon manufacture. 

“There are… a few little perks…” Q says cautiously as if he can sense James’s disappointed unease. “You’ll note the grip of your Walther is a little different this time…”

James takes the gun out from its protective foam. Q’s right, there’s a slight thickness to the grip that wasn’t there on any of his old models. It’s a slight change, but it’s significant enough that it might throw off the aim of a lesser agent. He takes a firm grip, aims at a bare piece of wall, and realises that a tiny orange light is shining just above his thumb.

“It’s been coded to your palm print,” Q explains. “Only you can fire it.”

“As long as I’m not wearing gloves,” James says, unable to avoid picking holes.

But his sourness doesn’t seem to bother the new Q. “Just as well you’re going somewhere warm next then…” he retorts with a smile.

“And the radio?”

“A simple press of a button I’m afraid. My focus was on the Walther, I didn’t have the time for anything fancy, but I think you’ll be impressed with the range…”

“You made this?” James can’t keep the incredulous tone out of his voice no matter how hard he tries.

Q pulls another face. “Did you miss the part where I told you I’m you’re Quartermaster? Or do you still think that this is all some elaborate prank that M is pulling as revenge for you going off-grid again?”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

The rest of his reply is lost in Q’s tart response. “Believe what you want, 007. The gun works. The radio works. My job here is done. Bring them both back in one piece or next time I’ll send you into the field with nothing more than a toothpick.”

And, well, that’s James told.

\--

The gun works.

Until it is chewed up by a Komodo Dragon.

They have poisonous spit. It ruins the coded grip.

\--

“You did say to bring it back,” James says as Q inspects the slightly sticky, chewed up remains of the Walther. Q’s careful examination of the ruined gun required all his focus and James takes the opportunity to observe him more closely. Today, Q has ditched the pastel for a more mature shade of burnt orange. His jumper made out of some fine type of wool. Something about the way the fabric clings to Q’s unfairly toned chest makes James wonder whether he’s wearing a shirt under it or not. The thought is strangely intriguing, and James indulges in it as Q tries to work out if there is anything salvageable in the twisted metal James has just dumped on his desk.

“I said bring it back  _ in one piece _ ,” Q eventually says. “Still, I guess this is progress. And you’ll be pleased to know that I have your next piece of equipment already waiting for you.”

He passes another black box to James. This one is smaller. Suspiciously so.

Inside is a metal toothpick.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I  _ did  _ say ‘one piece’.”

If anyone else had spoken to James in this way or had tried to send him on a mission to Kazakhstan so unarmed, James would have marched into his mother’s office immediately and demanded their termination. But there is something about the look in Q’s eyes, the way he half-smiles and the way his voice always holds the edge of a tease, that makes James want to keep playing whatever game this is between the two of them.

James takes the toothpick.

\--

It comes in very handy when he has to pick the lock in the desk of the foreign minister’s office. It’s handier when James discovers that the tiny piece of tech can deliver a powerful electric shock when twisted at a certain angle. He leaves it embedded in the thigh of the unfortunate bodyguard who stumbles upon him.

Which leaves him completely unarmed and about to be surrounded by a regiment of very armed and very pissed off soldiers.

James curses under his breath.

“Language!” A voice remarks over the comms. James had, up until this point, been monitored by a woman with a slightly breathy voice but now the voice is masculine and reassuringly familiar.

“Q! What are you doing on the comms?” This sort of thing is usually reserved for junior operatives. Head of Department only ever take over on very special occasions. This sort of thing hardly qualifies as needing Q’s attention; James has been in more situations like this than Q has probably had hot meals.

“I heard you were in a bit of a situation. What’s your status?”

“I’m uninjured but unarmed. I lost that ingenious little pick you gave me. I’m sorry.”

There’s total silence on the other end of the line. James almost wonders if his comms have broken.

“Well, well… James Nightingale apologising for losing a weapon,” Q eventually says, and James can just picture the little grin he must be wearing. Q always seems to be smiling at him. It’s strange.

“I’m sending in backup now,” Q tells him. “I’m not so unprofessional as to leave you completely unarmed.”

There is a faint buzzing sound over James’s head. He only just spots the drone above him before it begins shooting. The bullets come fast, and from so many directions James wonders if there’s maybe more than one machine in the air.

“That’s quite some backup…” he remarks.

“Do you remember when you first came down to Q-branch after I took over? You saw me and the tech crew playing video games. You must have thought that we were just kids mucking around…” Q’s voice is slightly stilted as if he is concentrating on something else. “Well, what we were actually doing was testing out a new set of controllers for the drone squad. I can do all this, with just a few flicks of my thumb…”

Suddenly, there is a bright orange flash as a fireball hits a few hundred yards from where James is waiting in his concealed position. 

“Impressive…” James’s voice is thick with the dust from the explosion. But there is something else there too. The seductive drop in his voice that James only ever uses when he has decided that he wants something.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Q’s voice is equally low. James is just about to remark on it – to push whatever moment they are having together further, but it’s gone before he can act. “That was the last of them. Do you know where the extraction point is? There’ll be a plane waiting for you.”

And with that, he is gone.

\--

When James returns for debrief, Q is nowhere to be found. Instead, one of his many assistants – the one who Q had beaten at the videogame a few weeks ago as James recalls – writes down James’s confession that he has lost another piece of kit and files it away somewhere.

James had been, strangely, looking forward to seeing Q again. Something like disappointment settles within James at the young man’s absence. It’s ridiculous really; James has only known of his existence for a matter of weeks.

He needs to shake this off. Whatever  _ this _ is.

\--

Mission - seduce a junior member of the Sicilian mafia to find out where their next base of operations will be. De-brief. Lunch with mother in her role as his boss. Mission - locate the missing heir of a Topaz mining fortune. De-brief. Lunch with his mother in her role as his mother. Mission… Debrief… Mother… It’s a funny sort of pattern that repeats over and over again. James stopped worrying about what timezone he’s in many years ago.

The one thing that disrupts his routine is Q. Thoughts of Q and what he might be up to obtrude on James’s day like a stone in his shoe. One minute he’s perfectly happy going about his business, and then next he’s concocting some elaborate plot to go and visit Q down in his basement. Perhaps he could ask Q to consult on a new weapon design. Or he could take Q the copy of the building plans he stole from the Finnish crime lord, rather than sending digital copies as he was asked to. Maybe he could pretend to order too much Ethiopian take-away and use it as an excuse to have dinner with Q…? 

He knows that he’s being ridiculous. But he can’t quite help himself.

It might be easier to get away from if - after the mishap with the toothpick and the drone - Q hadn’t taken it upon himself to personally check in on him during every mission. At first, it starts out as just the odd cheeky comment about the state of his weapon. Q asks if James’s bad shoulder is holding up, or for a brief report of any modifications James would like on his next Walther. At one point he claims that he’s researching all of the 00’s weapons preferences and styles in the field so that he can design them the best vehicle to suit their needs. Over the course of three missions (Bolivia, Iceland, Namibia) James describes his perfect car – that Alpha Romeo in the basement is a good starting point – until what started as a five-minute check-in during some mission downtime has become Q becoming his lead handler and rather than Q dropping in on the coms every now and again, he is now simply there all the time. James is quite put-out when his target turns up at the casino table and he has to change the topic.

Back at MI6, James hangs around Q branch after returning his tech (mostly intact these days and isn’t that something). He stays there, hovering around Q’s desk until Q asks him if he wants a cup of tea. The “yes, please” is nearly out of his mouth before he catches himself and realises that the question is actually just Q pointing out how long he’s been there. Another time, he brings Q back a keyring of a matryoshka doll when he’s stranded (not Q’s fault) in Moscow airport coming back from a mission. He asks Q endless questions about how all of the equipment works and what his next plans are and Q responds with all the patience of a children’s television presenter. Which is funny, because that’s exactly how he dresses.

“You’ve got a crush,” Sami – 002 – tells him with a smirk. “You’ve spent more time in Q-branch in the last month than you did in the last five years.”

James sticks his tongue out at him and hides the pastry he bought for Q’s lunch behind his back.

\--

He’s in a five-star hotel in Leeds. Sharp suit. Sharper eye. This is what he’s best at.

Outside the oppressive air of London and away from the prying eyes of MI6, James finally feels a bit more like himself. Perhaps coming back from the dead wasn’t such a good idea after all?

No, he realises, he’s missed this. His missed scanning the room and knowing he’s the best-dressed person there. He’s missed appreciative glances hidden behind raised glasses and the way that a waiter’s touch will linger on his arm a bit too long.

Speaking of which, the young man at the bar looks like he’ll be exactly what James needs to break himself out of this particular rut. Dark hair might not be his usual preference but the wide-set shoulders and pert arse that he can see are. As the barman reaches up to the optics, James can see that wonderfully tight white shirt stretching across a lovely plane of muscle that James can’t wait to press his thumbs into. After all, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

The plan is made; he’ll break into the office upstairs, retrieve the data on the manager’s laptop, call Q to make sure the information has transferred, and then he’ll come and fetch this lovely barman and take him straight up to his room.

But first: gin.

“I’d like a martini please,” he says to the barman’s back. “Gin. Stirred. Dirty.” He enjoys the way the words roll off his tongue. They sound like a promise.

“Right away, Mr Nightingale.”

What? No – it can’t be.

But it is. The barman turns, and there is Q, smiling broadly at him.

“What are you doing here?” James hisses through his teeth.

“There’s an update on the tech I gave you and there was no other way of getting it to you on time,” Q says, glancing up at James from under his eyelashes as he mixes the martin. He can’t blow his cover, after all.

“Surely this is all a bit elaborate? And what about security? You’re a valuable government agent – there’ll be a bounty on your head!”

“I’m an independent man, James. I can handle myself,” Q retorts. “Besides, it’s hardly fair that the 00’s have all the adventure.” Q passes him a perfectly chilled glass. And a USB drive.

“And anyway,” Q continues batting his eyelashes at James in a way that simply  _ has _ to be on purpose. “You’re here. You wouldn’t let me get hurt.”

James doesn’t know what to say to that. On the one hand, he knows that he’ll be fantasising about swooping in to save Q from mortal peril when he finally goes to bed – alone – tonight. On the other, the thought of Q hurt and in danger makes him feel a little bit sick.

Instead, he changes the topic. “You dyed your hair.”

“Do you like it?”

No. But James can’t bear to hurt Q’s feelings.

“It’s ok,” Q says before James can think of a lie. “It will wash out.”

\--

No person looking at James would ever think that he is the sort to spend hours at the gym. That’s not to say that he doesn’t have a nice physique, but James knows that to the untrained eye his appearance looks to be more the result of a good diet and excellent tailor rather than the sweaty, protein drink fuelled, repetitive work of lifting weights over and over again.

Besides, he doesn’t need big muscles – not for the type of work he does. James’s skills have always run to persuasion, seduction, and manipulation. He can leave the brute force to the likes of 005.

Still, he does go to the gym. Fieldwork requires a level of fitness that must be practised to be maintained. While James has never enjoyed physical violence, there are occasions where strength is an asset. And while he prides himself on being lean and lithe, in order to do his job properly he must also be strong. And flexible.

There are other work-based advantages to watching his figure, after all.

Which is why, in his current state of post-mission-comedown and odd disappointment at finding Q once again absent from his office, he finds himself in one of MI6’s many gyms.

He changes quickly into his department-issued activewear and fires up a treadmill. Maybe a nice long run will snap him out of whatever this funk he is in and finally take his mind off Q.

But no sooner than James finished his warm-up – he spots him.

The gym James is in looks out over an Olympic length swimming pool. The lights are turned down low, which is why James didn’t notice the lone swimmer coursing up and down the pool at first. But the noise of a body breaking free of the water and clambering out of the pool draws James’s attention.

That golden-tanned skin could only belong to one person at MI6.

Q’s hair is back to blonde again and stuck flat to his forehead. It makes him look like a wet puppy in a sort of comically endearing sort of way. There’s nothing comical about the rest of him, though. Just beautifully sculpted muscle. Q turns around, and James nearly trips over his feet when he sees the way his tight little swim shorts hug around the contours of his arse.

James increases the speed on the treadmill and tries to look away. But he can’t.

Q tilts his head back as he takes a long drink from a water bottle. His eyes trace over the gym windows and James prays that he can’t see the look of want that must be plastered all over his face. Q pauses for a moment, before tossing his bottle to the side and diving back into the water in one fluid movement. 

James runs until his legs go numb. 

\--

James loves his job. He loves the adrenalin rush of the risk and the endorphin hit that comes from meeting such high-stakes goals. True, he had been born to it, prepared for his role since birth by his mother and father. Marnie taught him everything she knew about being an agent. Mac taught him how to take a beating. 

Which is why he’s able to stagger up four flights of stairs with two cracked ribs and a beaten-up face to fetch the deep-cover agent that intel says is being held hostage in this East-London warehouse. Obviously, their intel is right, otherwise the guard downstairs wouldn’t have put up such a fight. James has lost his gun again, and so he had to use his fists. Q is going to be pissed. 

At least, James thinks he is. It’s hard to tell; Q has gone utterly quiet on his end of the comms. 

Confronted with a locked door, James’s body protests as he shoves against it to break it down. It opens with a crack and James has only a moment to pray that there are no more guards waiting for him. 

“There are no heat-signals,” Q says as if he has heard James’s silent plea. “I don't understand.”

“The guard downstairs probably alerted the rest of them. They’ll be long gone,” James tells him. It certainly seems that way, the office that James has broken into is a dark and dusty mess. There’s no sign of any life here. 

Except…

James spots him in the corner. Warren, the agent, slumped over, his neck hanging at an awkward angle. James checks for a pulse but he can already tell that it’s useless. 

“Agent down,” James says, quietly and carefully into his mic. 

“What?” Q’s voice is so small. “I’ll call medic.”

“No, Q,” James replies, trying to be as careful as possible. “It’s too late. He’s gone.”

There is silence for a little while. James can only just make out the soft and gentle noise of Q breathing down the com. 

Then: “I’m going to hand you over to Cleo.”

And Q is gone. 

\--

It’s about 3am by the time James manages to extract himself from medical. They’ve patched up his face as best they can but there’s only so much you can do for cracked ribs. He’s probably going to have to take it easy for a few weeks until he’s properly healed. 

There’s no reason for him to be in Q branch. So, naturally, that’s where he has found himself. 

The basement is quiet except for a few techies who are monitoring active missions in different timezones. Cleo, the operative who took over from Q is still there, but she usually works the night shift so there’s nothing unusual about this. What is unusual is the change in atmosphere. Under Q’s tenure Q branch has become known as a bit of a party hub - a place where technology is something to be played with rather than to be tinkered over academically - but now it is quiet and sombre. 

James goes straight for Q’s office. The techies watch him and say nothing.

It’s dark, save for one floor-lamp casting an orange pool of light in the corner of the room. Under it sits Q, knees hunched up to his chest, his head buried in his arms, looking so small that James just wants to gather him up in his arms and hold him there forever. 

He doesn’t give in to the impulse - it wouldn’t be right to push anything physical on to Q right now when he’s obviously feeling vulnerable. But he does sink down beside him, slowly so as not to startle Q. 

After a moment of sitting there and letting Q get used to his presence, James asks. “Was that your first?”

Q sniffs and raises his head a little. His eyes are puffy and red but it looks like he ran out of tears a while ago. 

“No,” he answers. “But it was my first as department head.”

Honestly, it’s impressive that he’s managed to go that long without losing an agent. But James knows this isn’t the right time to say it. Instead, he just lets Q talk.

“I feel like such a failure. I keep replaying it over and over in my mind to see if there’s anything I could have done to stop it. I keep trying to figure out what I did wrong.” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Warren knew the risks when he took the job.”

“But I’m supposed to keep you safe!”

If James wasn’t so focused on helping Q calm down he might have decided to ruminate on all the possibilities of Q’s use of the word ‘you’. 

“You can’t be responsible for the whole agency, Q. You’re doing an excellent job.”

“So, why doesn’t it feel that way?” 

Q’s body has unfolded a little. An untrained eye might not notice the way that Q’s feet are now facing towards him and how his head and shoulder are leaning ever more into James’s space. But reading body-language is one of a 00-agent’s most important skills. James follows Q’s lead and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. Q leans into the touch gratefully, but James is sure he doesn’t know he’s doing it. 

“Normal people can’t do this job,” James says as gently as he can. “You have to be clever, and strong, and bold, and ruthless. You’re all those things, Q. But you’re something else too.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re  _ you _ . No one else can do this job like you can, Q. Look at all the changes you made to this place! And all of them for the better! You’re funny, and kind, and utterly charming… I know that losing an agent sucks and that there’s nothing that I can say that will make it better. But Warren didn’t die because of you.”

Q stares at him. His eyes are almost turqouise in the orange of the lamplight. James hopes that he can find whatever he is looking for in James’s own eyes.

“You think I’m charming?” he eventually says. 

James won't admit how true it is. “You have your moments.”

“Thanks. For what you said.”

“I meant it.”

“I know. I’m sorry you got hurt today, too. Hearing you get… It was horrible.”

James is oddly flattered to know that Q was so affected by the thought of him getting hurt. 

“Medic will mix you up something to help you sleep,” he says moving to pull himself off the floor. 

“Wait, James,” Q reaches out and grips on to James’s arm. “Can we stay here? Just for a little longer? I don’t feel ready to face it yet.”

James will stay with him for as long as he needs. 

\--

Q is waiting for him the next time James goes down to pick up his weapons. There’s something odd about the way Q is looking at him. Almost like he is guilty about something. He hopes poor Q doesn’t blame himself for James’s black eye. It’smostly healed now, anyway. 

“It’s a simple assassination,” Q says. The words seem a little odd coming out of his mouth. It’s almost a shame that someone with a face so angelic should talk about death so easily.

“I’ve been working on this for a while now,” he continues, leading James over to a workbench that is covered in a jumbled mass of parts. James tries to make sure that he is looking where he’s going and not at the pert arse currently in front of him. Q doesn’t notice James’s distraction; he’s too busy carefully assembling a rifle from the assorted parts.

James is surprised when Q hands the machine over. It’s lighter than any rifle he has ever held before. It fits perfectly in his grip, almost moulding exactly to his body shape. It feels like it has been designed specifically for him, and him alone, to use. Knowing Q, it probably has been.

James spends a few moments checking out the scope and feeling the weapon in his hands as Q waits beside him.

“It’s perfect,” he says. “Thank you.”

Q blushes right to the tips of his ears.

\--

Sniper assassinations are one of James’s particularly special skills. Sniper assassinations are also mind-numbingly boring.

He’s checked in with his handler, a junior officer named Claire (nice enough, bit boring) at his allotted contact times, but other than that he has very little to do except wait for the leader of the cartel to put in an appearance.

“Check in. 1900 hours. All clear,” James says into the mic.

“All clear,” replies a voice.

“Q! How wonderful to hear from you,” Q doesn’t need to know exactly how true that statement is. Q might have been monitoring all of his missions, but he nearly always finishes his shift before 8 pm and it is now way past that back in London. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Congratulations, Nightingale; you’ve managed to go all this time without making a joke about my age.”

“Well, it’s gone midnight where you are. I wouldn’t want one of our department heads suffering from burn-out now, would I?”

“Your concern for my health is noted,” Q says, the lilting tone of his voice indicating that he is smiling. James wonders if he is blushing too.

“Surely this job is a bit above your pay-grade?” James asks. Of course this is by no means the first time Q has sat on the comms with him – after all, he  _ has _ been acting as James’s personal handler p – but this mission is so simple and uncomplicated that there really is no reason for Q to be here. James meant what he said; Q should be in bed.

“Perhaps, but I wanted to check in on how MI6’s most valuable asset is doing in the field.”

“Oh, Q! I’m flattered.”

Q actually laughs aloud at that. “I meant the gun.”

It’s fine, James knew he did.

“Well, if you hang around a little, I’ll be able to give you a full mission report on it. The target should be here within 20 minutes.”

“Hmmm, all right,” Q replies.

There is a brief pause. James decides that it’s finally time for a calculated risk.

“I’ve been at MI6 probably since you’ve been alive,” he says. “But before your promotion I’d never once seen you around the department. It’s nearly unheard of for someone to be promoted to Head of Department without many years in the service. So where were you stationed before?”

“Why do you want to know?” Q asks.

“Just curious. And bored – you know these sorts of missions are terribly dull.”

“It’s classified.”

Hmmm, interesting, James thinks.

“So is everything we do.”

Q takes a moment. James lets him think. Technically, Q could be breaking the conditions of his employment, but James knows that all he would need to do to get Q out of any sticky situation with HR would be to claim that he couldn’t fully trust Q without knowing a little of his story. Background checks, and all that.

“I was in Research and Development before,” Q’s voice is soft and low as if he is worried that he might be overheard. “Before that, I was on an internship with IT services. It was only meant to last for six weeks but they liked me and kept me on for a year.”

So far, so normal. Q must be talented, for an internship to have been extended like that. Still, that’s hardly surprising. James can see Q’s innate skill from the weapon currently clasped in his hands.

“Before that, I was an informant. On Operation Kneebone.”

And isn’t that like a punch to the gut? Operation Kneebone had been a mess from start to finish. A joint operation with MI5 and the Police, it had resulted in the dismantling of the largest human trafficking network in Europe. Every detail about it that James can recall is dirty and sordid. He closes his eyes, and he is back in the brothel, checking over the scared young men, making sure that none of them had been hit in the crossfire of a ten-hour raid. He can just imagine Q among their number.

“I don’t know what to say,” James admits.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Q reassures him. And that softness in his voice almost breaks James’s heart. The things he must have seen, must have heard, must have done. It’s enough to make James’s stomach churn. “I’m ok now.”

It’s a small comfort. But a comfort nonetheless.

The pause in the conversation comes at the opportune moment.

“Target acquired,” James tells Q.

“Oh. Do you have a clean shot?”

“Negative – he’s sitting behind a pillar in the restaurant.”

“We can wait,” Q tells him.

And wait they do. They must be silent on the line for a good five minutes before Q clears his throat.

“I saw you watching me.”

James nearly drops his weapon.

“When?”

“You know when.”

James does. They’ve never acknowledged that they saw each other the day James saw Q in the pool. But their eyes  _ had _ met. James knew he wasn’t imagining things.

“Did you like what you saw?” Q asks. “Did you like the way I looked? Did you like what I was wearing?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Yes – I think I do.”

And it would be delightful to luxuriate in this, to take an adventure down this new path that has opened up before them. But the timing is rotten, and there is work to do.

“I have a clean shot,” James tells him, the cartel boss having just moved to the restaurant bar.

“Take it,” Q orders.

James pulls the trigger and braces for the recoil of the gun.

\--

James feels like an excited schoolchild on the first day of term when he returns to Q-branch. It’s strange and disconcerting. James is a lone agent. An independent man. He doesn’t develop  _ feelings _ ; It’s not his style. But something about Q  _ still _ has him all discombobulated.

Q is waiting for him, at his desk.

“I’ve got you a present,” James announces. He puts the rifle case down on Q’s desk and unlatches it with a flourish. “All in one piece. Not a scratch on it.”

“Hmmm, it seems you have been paying attention after all,” Q says. “Good boy.”

Q’s voice is low so that only James can hear him. There is something dark and velvety in his tone that makes James shiver all over. He should be annoyed – such words coming from a man a decade younger than him should feel patronising, not exciting. But James can’t help the way his mind turns over.

He pictures himself lying naked and sweaty between those gorgeous thighs, Q panting and shaking against the pillows. ‘ _ Good boy’ _ whispered into the sheets after a particularly good fuck – one thrust from James perfectly placed to send Q flying apart. Or, maybe, James is the one on his knees and ‘ _ good boy’ _ comes as a reward paired with a hand threaded through his hair. Perhaps James has his legs wrapped around Q’s waist. Perhaps he’s gripping onto Q’s wrists as James rocks him against the headboard. Perhaps they’re up against the wall together… Perhaps… Perhaps…

Q is either oblivious to James’s internal crisis or he has simply chosen to ignore him. Either way he has continued talking as James panics and wonders where this sudden kink has come from. He’s never been into this sort of thing before. Kink is for missions, when strictly necessary. He hates being given orders in bed – it’s about the one place he insists on being free of them in all capacities. But there is just something about this boy that makes him want to go to his knees.

“… and I’ve put together another Walther for you. This one has the same palm-print grip as before since you said that it had proved advantageous in the field. And I’ve improved the water-resistance of this model. I’m not sure how effective my upgrades will be against Komodo Dragon spit, but we can hope…”

James takes the case Q offers him. The gun is sleek and beautiful, and James can’t help but stroke two fingers, purposefully and surely, up the barrel of the gun. He gently takes the weapon out of its case and grips the sensor in the handle tightly. The activation light pings to life, and when he looks down into Q’s eyes, he sees a similar glint shining there.

\--

All things considered, that should be the end of things. The finer arts of seduction are always slow, and James is more than willing to wait for however long it will take for Q to capitulate. This should be a nice, slow, and easy dance into Q’s bed. Or James’s. He’s not really all that fussed.

There may, or may not, be a slight spring in his step as he traces his way back through the corridors of power. He’s just thinking about treating himself to a nice lunch. Whilst not on active duty he can take as much time as he likes on his break and there’s a wonderful little French place that has just opened near the new HQ. He’s daydreaming about duck a l’orange when he hears a shout from behind him.

“James!” It’s Q and he’s slightly breathless – as if he has been running to catch up with him. “You left something in my office.”

“No, I didn’t…” James begins to reply, but before he can fully get the words out, Q is reaching up, grabbing him by the tie, and pulling him into a searing kiss. It burns James’s skin, where their lips are pressed together, and, in his shock and confusion, he lets Q control the kiss. It’s wet and sloppy and strangely inexperienced – but so,  _ so _ delicious. James wants to drown in it. Still, there can be some fineness, and James snakes his hand around Q’s waist so that he can pull him closer as he shows Q how to properly move his lips against James’s own.

Q shows off some impressive footwork, moving both their bodies so that James ends up with his back pressed against a wall, Q hot and eager against him as he boldly brushes his tongue against James’s. James’s mind has gone completely hazy with pleasure. So much so, that he had entirely forgotten where they are. At least, that’s his excuse for pushing his hand even lower, grabbing Q’s plump arse, and pulling him still closer so that he can press his hardening cock to Q’s own. James’s only goal in this moment is to make it clear to Q just what he’s doing to him.

It seems to be working if the way that Q forces himself up onto his toes and starts pulling James’s shirt free from his trousers is any indication. But then the noise of a door closing somewhere down the corridor distracts them both. Regrettably, Q pulls away. 

“I can’t…” he pants. “I’ve got to get back to work…”

James tries very hard not to pout, but he can feel himself doing it anyway. Q must notice because he presses in again to leave one final kiss on James’s lips.

“Later,” he says, and James believes the promise. “I’ll call you later.”

With that he is gone, racing back down the corridor as if he knows that if he doesn’t move fast enough that James will follow him and catch him.

And wouldn’t that be a fun game to play?

\--

Q does not call.

James’s lunch is ruined.

\--

He’s not moping. There could be any number of reasons that Q hasn’t called like he said he would. It’s incredibly likely that he has been caught up in something at work. Maybe M saw them snogging on the CCTV and decided to warn Q off him. Maybe one of the tech experiments had gone wrong. Or a junior analysist’s boyfriend has broken up with them and Q is fulfilling the pastoral part of being a Head of Department. All of these scenarios are far more likely than any situation where Q has changed his mind and decided that he doesn’t want James after all.

So why is James’s stomach tied up in knots?

It’s so bad he can’t sleep. He’s tried watching a film, reading a book, listening to a podcast… he’s even tried masturbating but that just made him miserable as his mind conjured images of the gorgeous tanned skin and crisp white sheets.

He’s just about to reach for the sleeping tablets – a special issue from Medical for use only in the most dire of emergencies – when his phone rings.

_ Unknown Number _

He answers.

There is nothing but silence. But then, breathing.

“… James…”

He’s so used to hearing that voice on the end of his comms that he can identify it by only the faintest tone.

“Q? What’s going on?”

“… James…” Q says again. His voice is still quiet. But it’s not like the other times when he was flirting or telling secrets. There’s something disconcerting about the way James can hear the wet click of Q’s vocal cords. “I’ve been… I’ve been stabbed…”

If there’s anything James knows how to deal with, it’s stress. But this? This is almost too much.

“Where are you? I’m on my way!”

“My flat… You know the address. I know you looked it up.”

James had. He’d been curious. He’d wondered if she should send Q flowers after he lost the toothpick in Kazakhstan.

“It’ll be there in a few minutes. Just hold on.” He’s out the door, vaulting over the steps to his apartment and rushing down the road. Driving at this time of night would only slow him down. He’ll get there faster if he runs.

“How bad is it?” James asks, hardly daring to hope.

“Stomach. I’m not sure… There’s a lot of blood….”

“Ok, Q. Just stay with me.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know, but you need to stay awake, ok Q? I need you to keep talking to me…”

“Harry,” Q manages to say, though it sounds like the effort costs him. “My name is Harry…”

\--

He finds Harry, just conscious, lying in a pool of blood in his kitchen. The place is a wreck – it looks like there’s been a major altercation in it – but James hardly has the time to notice. Harry has managed to pull a kitchen towel toward him to try and staunch the blood, but he’s too weak to hold it properly against the large gash in his side. James does it for him, pressing down as hard as he can and using Q’s wince of discomfort as a sign that there’s still hope.

Medic are on the way, James made sure of that – MI6’s team so that there wouldn’t be too many questions. James holds Harry’s hand as they wait for the last few agonizing moments, whispering to him as those bright blue eyes drift in and out of focus.

“Stay with me, Harry. Please, Harry. Please…”

\--

Marnie visits while Q – Harry – is still asleep. James can’t tell if she’s here in her capacity as his mother or his boss.

“Explain,” she says, crossing her arms as she stands at the foot of Harry’s hospital bed.

“Q was stabbed.”

Her eyes flick down to James and Harry’s entwined hands. “Try again.”

“Q was stabbed, and he called me…?”

She sighs the sigh of the long-suffering and drops the issue.

“The board won’t approve of this,” she warns him.

“Do you think they’ll be more or less approving than they were that time you decided to promote your own son to 00-status?”

It’s unfair to use their shared history against her, but he doesn’t want Harry threatened in any way.

“Yes… well… You should be careful. If it comes down to a choice between you or him, the board will pick him – no contest. He’s more cost-efficient than you.”

There is a moment that passes between them as Marnie transitions out of her role of his boss and into her role as his mother. One moment she is stern and stiff and clearly annoyed at finding out that two key members of her staff have been  _ fraternising _ and the next she wears the expression of a woman relieved to find that her eldest child has found love at last.

Wait… is this love?

James looks down at Q – Harry. He looks much paler than usual and the sight makes James’s heartache. His blonde hair is mussed against the pillow and James wishes he could see what it would look like resting against James’s own sheets rather than the thin and scratchy ones they use in medic. He should not be thinking those sorts of thoughts given how dire the situation is. And yet, James can’t escape from the part of himself that wants to wrap Harry up in his duvet and hold him close and tight until his scars are all healed, and the sheets smell like him.

If this is love, it is unlike anything James has ever experienced before.

James reaches up with the hand that isn’t currently gripping on to Harry’s and brushes a lock of hair free from his eyes. He wishes that he could see them open – sleepy and unfocused and happy to see him. The want must be written all over his face because Marnie quietly coughs to remind him that she is there.

“I’ll step down from active duty if you want,” James tells her.

Marnie can hardly keep the surprise out of her voice. “Is it really that serious between you two?”

Not yet, it’s not.

“No,” he tells her honestly. “But I don’t want him thinking that he has to give up his position for me. 002 has been joking that I’m overdue for retirement anyway…”

“I don’t think there’s a need for anything so drastic,” she replies, giving him a comforting squeeze on his shoulder. He’d return the gesture, but he doesn’t want to let go of Harry’s hand. “Both your records are impeccable. And there’s no one I would trust to keep you safe in the field than someone who loves you as much as he does.”

James can’t help but be confused at that.

“He’s been asking after you,” Marine explains. “I think he was trying to be subtle, but you know how impossible it is to keep secrets in an organisation that is paid to find them out. I’ve known about his feelings for you for a while – ever since he asked to be allowed to be your handler. But I didn’t know that you felt the same way about him.”

“I do.”

Harry seems to hear him; his eyes flicker beneath his eyelids and James’s heart leaps for joy at the thought he might wake up. But sleep still has him, and after a moment he is still again. 

\--

It’s a few hours later when Q eventually wakes up. He looks around the room for a few seconds before his eyes finally land on where James is hunched over in the hospital chair – still watching him.

“James…”

“I’m here,” James reassures him. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“Just come here,” Harry says, tugging on James’s hand and pulling him towards the bed. James tries to go as gracefully he can, mindful of how sore Harry must be. But Harry doesn’t seem to care. He just pulls him down until he is satisfied with the way that James is wrapped around him.

“Can’t believe it took us this long….” Harry says at the same time James says:

“Be careful of your stitches.”

“It’s worth it,” Harry tries to protest, but James shits himself around until he’s resting all his weight on his own arms and off Harry’s wound.

“I’ve been stabbed before; I know how this feels. Let me take care of you.” At that, Harry gives him a beautiful smile and relaxes.

“I know you probably don’t want to talk about this right now. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. But the sooner we know the sooner we can do something about it. Who did this to you Harry?”

Harry bites his lip a little. He’s clearly conflicted, and James is almost about to change the subject when Harry says:

“It was my ex. I was… Please don’t be cross with me…”

“I won’t be,” James reassures him. Though he’s not quite sure how he’s going to feel if it turns out that Harry’s been stringing him along all this time.

“You know I used to be on Operation Kneebone? Back when I was selling myself, I had this boyfriend called Ste. It was a dark time in my life, and he was the only thing that kept me sane. After everything that happened on the Operation happened, I knew I needed a clean break, and that meant breaking up with Ste. But he was my first love, and I couldn’t just let go that easy…

“It was fine for the first year. Ste was never investigated as part of the Operation, though he had known a fair bit about what I was doing. Anyway, one moment everything was fine, and the next he had joined some stupid far-right group.

“I started monitoring him, using my free time in the office and the surveillance equipment I had available to me. M will kill me if she finds out I was misusing MI6 resources like that… At first I was just trying to keep him safe, but when I found out some of the disgusting stuff he and his  _ mates _ have been up to, I started passing information on to the police…”

“And Ste found out?” James asks, already putting two and two together. “And he stabbed you?”

“He and his friends came over – I think they just wanted to talk, but things got heated. They accused me of lying to the police. Of betraying Ste’s trust. I never meant to hurt him, but I couldn’t let what he was doing go unpunished! And before I knew what was happening, I was on the kitchen floor and everything was going dark…”

James rubs his thumb across the thin skin of Harry’s wrist. The way his face softens at the gesture makes James wonder if Harry would purr if he could.

“You called me, not medical. Why?”

Harry grins but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “I said I would, didn’t I?”

It’s not an honest answer.

“I knew you’d save me,” Harry says after a moment. “I know it sounds ridiculous. But I could feel how bad it was and I just… I just wanted to hear your voice…”

“It’s ok,” James reassures him. “I’ll always save you.”

He leans down and presses his lips against Harry’s own. The skin there is dry, and he has hospital breath, but it is honestly the sweetest, softest kiss that James has ever experienced. Harry reaches upwards to deepen the kiss but James knows that if they start this, they won’t be able to stop. And he meant what he said about being careful of Harry’s stitches.

Instead he contents himself with watching Harry’s gorgeous face as he relaxes back into the pillows. James will deal with this ex-boyfriend later (and deal with him he will – James can promise that). For now, he simply settles in with Harry – his ingenious Quartermaster, his guardian, his lover – and enjoys the way the orange lights of the city, that they both work so hard to protect, shine in this brilliant boy’s eyes. 

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to @hazellestel who did a wonderful beta read of this. Any remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> I know fandom is going through the wringer at the moment. But there's always fanfic ;)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @brightingales


End file.
